


i need your lavender kiss

by evawrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fluff, Soft Gays™, bellatrix is completely ooc, hermione is crushing hard, i swear to god this work is very soft and aesthetically pleasing, she’s more like a combo of hbc and rose weil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27236713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evawrites/pseuds/evawrites
Summary: Being around Bellatrix had always felt like coming home, even before Hermione found out her name. And after that? She simply couldn't stay away. Bellatrix didn't seem to want her to.Or,a Modern Coffee Shop Bellamione AU absolutely no one asked for.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 41
Kudos: 138





	1. names made out of constellations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellatrxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatrxx/gifts).



> I wrote what was supposed to be a tiny one-shot because I got inspired by the poem in the beginning. It's Élégie by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, loosely translated to English by me. it's funny, actually, because I translated the Russian translation of a French poem to English, so bear with it, please. Sorry in advance for the quality of the poem, that's not my field of expertise at all.
> 
> Also, I just wanna say that originally this chapter, the first one was written in Russian and then translated to English. It was a huge pain in the ass, but **it was done as a gift for my one and only exceptional Helena. <3**
> 
> I'm _pretty_ sure this is gonna flop, but oh well. I kinda like this one and want to write some more, so I hope there will be someone who finds this fic worth reading and then waiting for.

_Before I saw you, I was already yours._

_To you I was promised even before I was born;_

_I shuddered at your name while your soul,_

_Called out to me in the depths of the fog._

_Suddenly, the name came out,_

_And I felt the ground slipping away from under my feet;_

_I listened for a long time, and even longer I stayed silent._

_And at this moment, it felt like fate;_

_Mysteriously crowned us as each other’s halves._

_It felt like my name was said for the very first time;_

_Like no one but you had ever said it before._

The scent of strong coffee, oranges, and cinnamon hit her as soon as she walked in. Or maybe the smell of ripe peaches, dried lavender, and old parchment. There were the faintest notes of sea salt, milk chocolate, and roasted hazelnuts, too.

The list of scents filling this place could be endless.

The coffee shop was considered by many to be unremarkable and unpretentious from the outside. It was located at the very end of a long street about a few blocks from the main one. The building was made of pale blue stone and was half-covered with ivy, in the best French traditions. Outside, there were five or six tables with wicker chairs of an incongruous pale yellow color, which, in Hermione’s opinion, didn’t match the dark green napkin holders and vases for large, fresh peonies at all. The sign over the front door had been long since askew and faded—the coffee shop occupied the sunny side of the street—so much so that you couldn’t make out the name unless you went in.

Hermione had always gone into _The Hidden Stalk_. Pieces of France seemed to be everywhere in this place: in the light unobtrusiveness and softness of the interior; in the white and beige sofas, pale blue armchairs and shabby wooden tables; in the dried sprigs of lavender and lilac at every table and on every shelf of the massive wooden bookcase filled with novels in French and English. All the books were old, rather dog-eared, with various little notes and captions in messy cursive handwriting in two languages. There was casual chic mixed with a certain kind of perfection behind the counter; the entire menu was handwritten on chalkboards in neat calligraphic handwriting and hung on the wall.

In the midst of all this calmness, a woman with unruly black curls was a kind of an island of chaos. For some reason, she was still giving off a sense of serenity. Hermione thought that the woman’s beauty was definitely mind-blowing in her uniqueness. Every day she looked like a noblewoman from an early Victorian novel, even while serving customers, warming up pastries, or making the most incredible coffee in all of London. She combined a black color of her clothes with floral and pastel motifs, and Hermione found something amazing and extraordinary in this, in her thoughts snorting at anyone who believed otherwise. 

Hermione didn’t even know the older woman’s name, but she kept coming back, even though it wasn’t exactly on her way. She didn’t live in London, but in the suburbs, and went to the coffee shop every day after her classes. She would walk a good three and a half kilometers on foot—she didn’t want to spend money on a bus. Instead, Hermione spent them on coffee, pastries, more coffee, and sometimes even a slice of some chocolate and raspberry cake that gazed enticingly at her from the counter.

Hermione sat there almost until the closing time, occupying a table by the window with a street view. For the first hour, she had always watched everything; people coming and going, the traffic outside, but most often, she would watch the coffee shop owner. She watched the way the older woman smiled charmingly and greeted regular customers with an order that had been prepared for them even before they came in—she knew their schedule and preferences that well.

Hermione marveled at how swiftly but smoothly the brunette moved around the coffee shop, clearing away dirty dishes and taking them to the kitchen, where she would spend some time washing them. She watched the way the older woman meticulously counted out coffee beans she needed to grind and how the slightest hints of satisfaction would dawn on her pale face when the beans turned into a dark chocolate powder. Of course, there was something else. It was when the flow of customers died down that the brunette would take a volume of presumably French poems from one of the shelves, treating the book with a special kind of tenderness and care. Hermione could never seem to catch the name of the author. 

By five o’clock, there would be too many people for the older woman to remain as relaxed as before. So she had always turned into a busy bee from a fabulous forest fairy she kind of resembled before that, without losing the elegance and grace Hermione came to associate her with. Her every movement was smooth, her words were never harsh; Hermione thought the brunette’s voice was as soft as cotton candy or snowflakes falling from the sky at Christmas time.

Hermione always had to almost forcibly look away from the coffee shop owner to do her assignments, laying out some textbooks and notebooks on a small round table. She would write essays on social inequality in a heavy leather-bound notebook and ponder over her notes for hours, trying to grasp the concept of law. Her light-brown, slightly curly hair often got in her face, so she would mutter soft curses at either unruly those locks were or how incomprehensible and difficult some of her assignments appeared to be.

All of this came to a stop as soon as the hand of an old, antique clock with Roman numerals instead of Arabic had passed half-past six, and most people had scurried away.

Hermione was struck by the fact that all the coffee shop customers seemed to be living on a schedule. By that time, there were only three or four people left, including herself and a woman whose beauty she was ready to admire for hours on end. She would always put down her books and get up to pick up another novel by the Bronte sisters or a Jane Austen one from the top shelf of the massive bookcase, each of which she almost learned by heart back when she was fifteen. She always opened a book on a random page and started reading from there, and it often happened that she would find herself thinking these same pages and parts were read by her a few days earlier.

But Hermione still kept reading, even if only superficially; more often than she should have, she timidly looked up, setting her eyes on the older woman a few tables away from her own. Her hair was no longer down but pulled up in a loose bun, so loose that some of the strands hang down, obscuring parts of her face. The brunette had to tuck them behind her ears so that they didn’t block the view of the book. She clutched the volume tightly, but at the same time with a unique tenderness.

After three weeks of daily trips to the coffee shop, Hermione finally saw the author’s name. That same evening, she bought an identical collection of poems by Marceline Debord-Valmore and absent-mindedly whispered the lines from _Before I saw you, I was already yours_ before falling asleep.

Hermione had always left half an hour before closing time to catch the last train to Guildford. She made sure to bring a few cinnamon rolls for her parents and younger sisters. The older woman packed them in a colorful box, tying it with a white satin ribbon with special trepidation. There was always a smile on her lips, soft and almost imperceptible as she handed the box to her. Hermione felt like she could pass out at any moment, but she had never forgotten to smile back.

A month and a half after she first wandered into the coffee shop, accidentally taking the wrong street, she finally found out the older woman’s name. Because another one came in, interrupting an already established routine and forcing Hermione to stop reading the twelfth chapter of _Jane Eyre_. 

She had long platinum-blonde hair styled so perfectly that it seemed like she practiced dark magic; Hermione was sure that the wind was raging outside ten minutes earlier, but the woman still looked like she just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Many would say that her outfit was much more moderate than the coffee shop owner’s, but Hermione thought a little differently. It was gorgeous, indeed, but too simple in its sophistication.

Hermione watched as the stranger walked over to the table where a dark-haired woman sat with her favorite volume of poetry for over half an hour now. She couldn’t help but gasp in surprise when she saw them hugging each other as if they had known each other for decades. Their conversation was too quiet and muffled for Hermione to hear anything, but the way they touched one another was remarkably gentle, with a sense of familiarity. At the very end of the conversation, which came less than five minutes later, Hermione heard a name that sounded more like a hiss. _Cissy_. That was how a coffee shop owner called the woman with almost moonlight-colored hair. 

“Don’t forget to answer my emails, Bella,” _Cissy_ said as they walked to the exit. She disappeared a second later, a soft smile on her face, leaving behind a light trail of cranberry and mango perfume.

 _Bella._ The name floated in Hermione’s mind and hit the rocks like sea waves. _Bella._ It was soft but firm at the same time, the gentle flow of syllables filling Hermione’s mind to its core as she fixed her eyes on the older woman. _Bella_. The name felt like searching for constellations on a cloudless midnight blue sky, like watching the sun rise in the morning and set in the evening, coloring the sky in deep oranges and reds. 

“Bella?” Hermione asked out aloud for some unfathomable reason. It was an impulse, an urge from somewhere deep inside of her, and it felt like a natural disaster—beautiful in its destructiveness, the one that could not be stopped.

The older woman looked at her intently, with narrowed eyes, with her arms crossed over her chest as if in some kind of silent defense. Hermione blushed slightly, lowering her head and biting the inside of her cheek. This was incredibly stupid. She was already beginning to seriously consider getting up and leaving in silence and never coming back here again. (Who was she kidding? She knew she was utterly incapable of following through with it.)

“it’s a nickname,” Hermione heard Bella say after what felt like an eternity. Her voice was a little higher and had some hoarseness to it, and for some reason, it seemed quite different when she wasn’t announcing the price of the order or saying the usual cliché phrases, thanking for coming and wishing a pleasant day. That voice cut into the walls of Hermione’s brain and caused a slight throbbing, making her eyes widen as she kept looking, looking, looking, just like a dear caught in the headlights.

Bella grinned, but not maliciously, and even with some satisfaction, interest, and curiosity behind her smile, her onyx eyes shining in the soft yellow light of the coffee shop. “From Bellatrix,” she added off-handedly as she shrugged. It was said so casually like it didn’t mean anything at all. And then she lifted the corners of her mouth in an entirely unreadable smile and asked, “And what’s your name, hm? You come here a lot.”

 _Bellatrix._ Somehow, it sounded even more fitting, the last part of the name adding something mysterious and utterly exquisite. As Bellatrix herself, her name seemed to be the picture of uniqueness, extraordinariness. Hermione had never seen a name match to a person so well. 

It took her more than a minute to remember to actually _answer_ , and when she did, her voice came out in a croak, “H-Hermione.” She felt absolutely stupid for a second, or maybe even for a few. She carefully clutched a worn-out copy of _Jane Eyre_ in her hands and looked away from the older woman’s face, letting her gaze trail off in a general direction of dried lavender in a vase on the table. 

There was a silence, and then some more, and then, when Hermione was quite sure the older woman had already left her all alone, she heard, “ _Hermione_. Has a nice ring to it.” Bellatrix hummed quietly as if rolling the name around on her tongue and having a taste of it. Did names even have a taste, to begin with, or was Hermione going completely and utterly mad? She wasn’t sure. But for some reason, she thought they had. For some reason, the name on Bellatrix’s lips sounded not quite like on anyone else’s. 

“Yeah?” Hermione looked up, meeting her onyx eyes. They were much darker than Hermione’s own but perfectly reflected a soft yellow light coming from her right side. 

She got another hum in response, and then, “I like it.” Bellatrix shrugged again, tearing her eyes away from Hermione, looking more thoughtful than anything. She was halfway to the counter, a coffee shop almost empty except for Hermione’s table and another one being occupied, when she suddenly looked over her shoulder and asked casually, “Do you want some more tea? On the house. Yours is already cold.”

Hermione’s lips parted slightly as she looked down on her mug, the steam coming from long gone by now. She was so engrossed by reading, sneaking glances at the older woman—Bellatrix—and the appearance of a new face outside of the carefully crafted routine that she completely forgot to take even a few sips. Still, there was the faintest smell of some berries engulfing her, probably coming from the tea. 

Hermione looked back at Bellatrix, nodded briefly, and smiled. The older woman didn’t say anything in response; she just went back behind the counter, muttering some seemingly familiar lines under her breath. For some time, Hermione sat there, head tilted slightly to the left as she watched Bellatrix move around. At some point, she got up and walked to the dark wooden bookcase, putting the copy of _Jane Eyre_ back in its rightful place. Hermione didn’t know how many minutes she spent just standing there, carefully touching the spines of different books while trying to choose the one that spoke to her. 

When she came back to her table with a collection of Maugham’s short stories in her hand, there was a mug of steaming fruit tea waiting for her, right next to a plate with a piece of chocolate and raspberry cake. Hermione turned around and looked in the counter’s direction to thank the older woman, but there was no one, just the faintest smell of lavender and coffee filling the shop. 

After finishing her tea and eating a piece of cake, Hermione pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen. When she left the coffee shop merely twenty seconds after that, a little note with a cursive _thank you_ and a smiley face was left behind on a table. 


	2. corgi band-aids & a feather-light touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **for my one and only match <3**

When Hermione came back to _The Hidden Stalk_ the next day, she came back to the smell of burned coffee and lavender and the quiet swearing, the first part of which was in French, and the rest was in Portuguese, with a few German words slipped in-between these two. It made her freeze at the doorstep as she watched Bellatrix actually _glare_ at the coffee and clutch her finger to her chest as if burned. Come to think of it, it probably was. 

Hermione made her way to the counter, looking around. It was unusually empty for that time, just a few tables occupied in the furthest corner of the spacious but cozy room. As she stopped in front of the counter, Bellatrix turned around sharply and went to the kitchen, just leaving her to stand there. Hermione didn’t really understand what that meant until the older woman came back with her right index finger wet, presumably cold water dripping from it. 

Bellatrix stopped right across from Hermione, tucking some of her messy curls behind her ears as warm hazel eyes met onyx ones. 

“Oh, it’s you,” the older woman breathed out, her voice much softer than when she was swearing like a sailor in at least three languages—Hermione suddenly started wondering how many of them she knew. “Hermione, right?” She looked her over then, her eyes narrowing as they stopped at Hermione’s forehead. “Is that a new fashion?” she asked, motioning to her own forehead as if to point out something obvious. 

“Huh?” Hermione asked dumbly nonetheless, touching the place on her forehead that almost mirrored the one Bellatrix pointed at. Her hand connected with a band-aid then, making her part her lips in a realization. _“Oh.”_

Bellatrix smirked. “Got into a fight?”

“You could say so, yeah,” Hermione chuckled. 

“Did you manage to get someone’s ass kicked?” the older woman mock-whispered. Her voice was a little teasing and conspiratorially as if it was the secret no one but them could know. 

“No, only mine was.”

“Do tell.” Bellatrix leaned on the counter, resting her chin on her hands. “A girl or a boy? I sure hope it’s the first one.” 

“A book,” Hermione admitted, sighing wistfully, a playful smile appearing on her face on its own accord. 

Bellatrix blinked in surprise, her eyebrows shooting up as her teasing smirk turned into a disbelieving smile. She laughed then, shaking her head, her curls falling over her face and obscuring it from Hermione’s view almost entirely. Even though the brunette couldn’t see it, the quiet, melodic sound that filled the entire coffee shop was just enough for her. It seemed like it echoed off the walls, traveling from one table to another as the few customers who were inside looked up and around, searching for the source. 

All Hermione could do was smile stupidly, a little bit awkwardly, but Bellatrix’s grin seemed to widen at that when their eyes met again. 

“A _book_?” the older woman asked, her tone doubtful, the hints of laughter still evident in her voice. 

Hermione sighed once again as she started retelling one of the most embarrassing moments of her life—it wasn’t hard to add one to the list since she didn’t really have many of them, a huge thank you to the universe. 

She was just doing some research in the library, looking at various books to find a piece of information she needed on the Catherinian Era. Hermione was positively holed up in the library for at least an hour before she came here. She wanted to be done with this routine task as fast as possible and finally begin writing her paper, putting ideas into actual coherent sentences instead of the little notes and doodles they had been before that. 

The textbook she knew would undoubtedly have the answer was a very noticeable one, with a cover of the bright red color; it caught Hermione’s eyes the second she passed that rack. The only downside was that the volume was on the highest shelf, making it very difficult for Hermione to get it without using the ladder. However, it was nowhere to be found, and Hermione didn’t really have a lot of time to run around the gigantic university library searching for it. Getting It over with seemed smart. However, trying to jump as high as she could and catch the edge of the book’s spine with her fingers was _not_ the wisest decision she had ever made. Hermione realized that as soon as the textbook she needed, along with some other volumes, fell down _right_ on her, one of them scraping her forehead. 

And as if it wasn’t enough, her Russian history professor stood just a few steps away from her and watched everything unfold. That was the most embarrassing part of the entire situation, as well as the laugh she let out seconds before she helped Hermione get back up on her feet. 

The next thing Hermione knew was that the older woman was rummaging through her back, her mussed locks of the lighter shades of dark brown obscuring her face entirely from Hermione’s view. A soft, excited sound left her lips as she took the band-aid out, handing it to Hermione. It was quite confusing at first, but then Hermione felt something slick on her forehead. The band-aid was exactly what she needed, it seemed. Even though it was with tiny little corgis all over it, as she discovered five minutes later in the bathroom. 

As soon as she finished the story and focused back on Bellatrix, she saw the way her shoulders shook slightly as the older woman tried to keep herself from laughing too loudly.

“Jesus, you really _are_ the nerdy type,” she said, smiling. “Though I should’ve expected it, considering all you do around here is read books and write down stuff in your little notebooks,” Bellatrix muttered more to herself than to anyone, making Hermione smile in response at the thought that the older woman paid enough attention to her to notice what she was doing. “Anyway, what can I get you?”

“A lemon meringue pie and a cup of something of your choice?” Hermione said, the statement somehow turning into a question by the end. She smiled sheepishly.

Bellatrix chuckled and nodded somewhat thoughtfully. She started rummaging through the cupboards, her back turned to the younger woman, even before Hermione even had the chance to take her credit card out. Hermione watched the brunette move around the space behind the counter as she was taking the pie out of the fridge and making coffee. At some point, Hermione stood up on her toes to try and see what coffee the older woman was preparing for her, but as if reading her thoughts, Bellatrix tsk-ed and turned around, shaking her head. The drink remained hidden as it stood on the counter behind her back, probably half-finished. 

“And why are you not sitting down? You’ve had the same place for weeks now, but remember that this coffee shop doesn’t have any reservations. Someone might take it,” Bellatrix teased, her smile growing wider. “I will admit, that spot is a perfect one. Has quite a nice view. Both to the street and at what’s happening inside.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, the warmth spreading through her chest.

 _The Hidden Stalk_ was a small local coffee shop, and Hermione got to know some of the customers over these past three weeks. She had never talked to any of them but was attentive enough to know some of their orders and what they looked like and to assume or guess the career paths they had chosen for themselves. The people were all the same, week after week, and in Hermione’s opinion, that’s what made _The Hidden Stalk_ feel more like a home than just a coffee shop. 

A nurse stopped by every weekday closer to six in the evening to get dozens of cups of coffee, probably for everyone in her shift. Bellatrix would give her some free cinnamon buns to go with the coffee because _“No black coffee on an empty stomach, Rose. You’re literally a nurse, you should know that.”_

There was a single mother with ten-year-old twins who would always stare at Hermione while their blonde middle-aged mother was looking over the rich cake selection. During that time, Hermione’s eyes would find Bellatrix, who always engaged in a conversation with the other woman. Sometimes it was about cakes and pastries. Other times, Bellatrix would ask the blonde woman about her teaching job or how her kids were doing in their theatre classes. 

There was a bunch of teenagers that would come around the same time as Hermione. They studied in the final year of a nearby high school and stopped by the coffee shop to get some drinks and pastries to go after classes and probably before some electives they had to attend later in the day. Bellatrix always asked some very detailed and well-meaning questions that told Hermione that she had known them for some time. The questions were about teachers and grades and typical high school drama Hermione would always snicker at, hiding her face behind the book. 

Somehow, today _The Hidden Stalk_ felt more like home than it did the day before. Nothing really changed; the coffee shop looked exactly the same. There was dried lavender in tiny glass vases on every table and a strong smell of coffee that overpowered almost every other except for lavender and a few more. A quiet jazz melody was coming out of the stereo system above the counter—Hermione found herself humming to it before she realized it. 

Bellatrix kept staring at her, and it took some time for Hermione to pull herself out of her thoughts. When she did, she blinked, somewhat like an owl, and very eloquently asked, “Huh?”

The older woman rolled her eyes kindly, chuckling and muttering something so quietly Hermione wasn’t able to catch it. 

“You can go sit down. I will bring everything over to your table.”

“But I—what about—pay!” Hermione said hastily, furrowing her eyebrows right after that. God, did she lose the ability to _speak_ now? At least Bellatrix seemed to enjoy Hermione’s inner turmoil at her own stupidity, according to the teasing smirk the older woman was sporting. “What I meant was,” she started again, more calmly this time, “how much do I need to pay for the pie and coffee?”

Bellatrix waved her hand at her dismissively, as if such thought hadn’t even occurred to her. 

“It’s on the house.” She shrugged as her smirk grew wider. “I think you need it after your ego was bruised so brutally. To lose a fight against a book…” Bellatrix shook her head, clearly feigning her wistfulness as she sighed. She turned around then, getting back to her task, and Hermione, too baffled and filled with warmth to protest, headed to the place she usually occupied. 

As she sat down, her eyes flickered to Bellatrix, who kept making finishing touches on the surprise-coffee. The older woman moved to a plate with the pie, a knife in her hands, and it was a few seconds before Hermione heard a string of curses again. She watched as Bellatrix put a finger into her mouth, slightly sucking on it, her brows furrowed as if she was actually deeply annoyed with herself. 

Hermione averted her gaze to avoid being caught staring. She reached for her backpack and took out her MacBook and a massive notebook she used to plan and write down lecture notes when she didn’t have the time or couldn’t find anything else to write in. While waiting for her older, Hermione opened one of her various MS Word documents, which had a half-started sociology final paper. She started typing out the corrections and little details she discussed with the TA earlier today, and the task consumed her so fully that she actually jumped a little when Bellatrix appeared out of nowhere, putting a plate and a mug in front of her.

Hermione’s eyes flickered to Bellatrix’s hands first as the older woman let go of the tableware. Her skin wasn’t that smooth anymore, there were a few burns on some of her fingers, and Hermione quickly spotted a fresh cut on her right index finger. The bleeding seemed to stop, but Bellatrix really needed to cover it up if she didn’t want it to start again. 

Hermione looked up and blushed as soon as she met the older woman’s eyes. A teasing smirk graced Bellatrix’s features while one of her eyebrows was raised in a silent question. _So much for not being caught staring._

“Thank you,” Hermione muttered right after clearing her throat. She settled her eyes on a lemon meringue pie, the blush on her cheeks only getting more visible as she felt Bellatrix’s eyes looking her over. 

“Try the coffee,” Bellatrix said, flopping down on the chair on the other end of the table. The motion was so ungraceful and casual that it made Hermione’s head shot up, her eyes finding the older woman once again. According to a playful smirk that was a little too knowing, that was exactly what Bellatrix aimed for. “I’m curious if you like that combo.”

Hermione moved her laptop and notebook slightly to the side. She reached for a ceramic turquoise mug and took a careful sip. It was a filter coffee––that she could tell; she used to survive solely on it during her first year in the university and would be able to recognize the taste even in her sleep. But it wasn’t as bitter as the one she used to drink. There were light flowery notes and something sweet and a little bit spicy with a strong flavor. Somehow, this coffee felt land tasted like the entire coffee shop itself.

As soon as this thought appeared in Hermione’s mind, everything just clicked, making her eyebrows shoot up as she settled her eyes on Bellatrix, putting a mug on the table carefully. 

“Filter coffee with lavender and cinnamon?” Hermione asked, the corners of her lips quirking up in a small smile.

Bellatrix actually seemed impressed. She bit her lip and nodded slowly, drumming her fingers on the wooden table.

“ _Very_ good,” she drawled, making a shiver run down Hermione’s spine. “Is it to your liking?”

“It—it is, and v-very much so,” Hermione stuttered, swallowing hard. She blinked a few times, reaching for the mug again and taking a few more sips. “I love the taste. Bittersweet, light lavender notes… and the cinnamon gives it something special.” 

Bellatrix tapped on the table again and hummed—it was clearly some song Hermione couldn’t quite recognize. When it seemed like the older woman was ready to speak up again, she hissed as her fingers stopped moving. Hermione’s eyes flickered to Bellatrix’s finger with a fresh cut on it.

“You really should cover it up,” she muttered. Then, her entire face lit up as she remembered about a spare band-aid her professor gave to her earlier today. “Wait a second, I have something for you.” 

Hermione turned slightly to the side, rummaging through her backpack. The number of things she was able to fit in there was honestly astounding; it felt like an enlarging charm was cast on it—there was almost everything Hermione needed, at all times. She had books, snacks, university materials, chargers, some CDs, more snacks, pens and pencils and highlighters, a few fruits, some discount coupons, and about twenty more things most people couldn’t even think of.

So it took a couple more seconds before she finally took a band-aid out of the backpack with a triumphant, “Aha!”

When she looked at Bellatrix again, there was an amused expression on the woman’s face, as if she found a simple act of Hermione rummaging through her backpack more entertaining than all of the entertainment magazines and reality shows combined. Hermione decided not to dwell on it as she put her left hand on the table, her palm up. 

“Give me your hand.”

Bellatrix blinked.

“What?”

“I will just put on a band-aid, so you won’t hurt that finger even more,” Hermione explained, smiling sheepishly. She dipped her head, eyeing the older woman with some sort of silent curiosity, trying to guess what her next action would be.

She felt it before she saw it, the way Bellatrix quickly but gently put her hand in Hermione’s. And god, the woman’s skin was much smoother and softer than it actually looked like with all the little burns and cuts. Somehow, touching Bellatrix felt like touching a delicate flower petal or a velvet piece of fabric of all the world’s brightest colors.

Hermione swallowed, somehow managing to unwrap the band-aid with only one hand—she should be given an award for it, really. She carefully put it on an angry red cut on Bellatrix’s index finger. It was quite funny, seeing a band-aid of a baby blue color covered with corgis on someone like Bellatrix, who, for all of her chaotic nature, looked truly _refined_ at any time of the day. 

Hermione couldn’t help but caress the older woman’s hand and a few of her fingers, the movements of her own slow and gentle; just a feather-light touch. Bellatrix was like an orchid, unique and colorful, with her velvet-soft skin and the smiles that reminded Hermione of the sun peeking out from behind the clouds in the middle of August.

Hermione drew her hand back, putting it in her lap very quickly. As soon as Bellatrix’s hand touched the scratchy, a bit cold surface of a wooden table, the older woman gasped ever-so-audibly at the loss of physical contact, her eyes widening. The silence seemed to envelop them both for a few seconds, and even though it wasn’t uncomfortable at all, Hermione could feel the slightest tension in the air as Bellatrix’s eyes flickered between Hermione’s own and her finger with a corgi band-aid on it. 

“Hey, we match now,” Hermione said for the lack of anything better to say, smiling sheepishly. She pointed at the same band-aid on her forehead, with cheerfully smiling corgis with their little tongues.

It made Bellatrix let out a small laugh as she shook her head, looking down at her hand and bringing it closer to herself. Her eyes found Hermione’s a couple of seconds later, and her smile seemed to shine brighter than the stars Hermione saw out of her window last night. 

“We really do.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated! 
> 
> My tumblr is [evadwrites](https://evadwrites.tumblr.com).  
> My twitter is [evadwrites](https://twitter.com/evadwrites).
> 
> (yes. i know. i’m _that_ original with my usernames.)


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